


Why Cursed Objects Are Not Toys, By Dean Winchester

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Prompt:</b> red, velvet</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Cursed Objects Are Not Toys, By Dean Winchester

**Author's Note:**

  * For [navlasha](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=navlasha).



Dean never would have done it if he’d known. Well, okay. Maybe he would have. But only if he also knew how to get the fucking thing off.

It was pretty damn funny at first: watching Sam move around the room with that absurd sway in his walk, hearing him sigh and complain about not being able to find another ribbon to tie the rest of his hair up with. It was fucking hilarious when Sam demanded to know what Dean had done with his Lady Speed Stick and then ordered him to go buy another one _(powder fresh, none of that tropical crap)_. Also some ‘real’ razors, some shaving cream, a bra _(your sleazy date from last night stole mine)_ , and a box of tampons.

At this point, Dean was wishing he had a camera, or at least a tape recorder. He was also pretty sure he knew why the velvet ribbon, which he’d tied in his sleeping brother’s hair last night as a prank, was considered cursed. Laugh-a-minute would have been a more accurate description of the thing if you asked him.

“Well?” Sam demanded, putting his hands on his hips and actually _huffing_. “Get going!”

“You do realize you aren’t actually a girl, right?” Dean asked, testing the waters.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Why, because I refuse to slather on a pound of make up before I leave the room?”

“No, I just—well, you’re, uh, missing a couple of things.” Dean dropped his eyes meaningfully toward his brother’s chest and Sam’s cheeks went bright red.

“At least they’re real, which is more I can say for most of the ones you see!” he snapped, and it just figured that Sam as a girl’d be on the rag and PMSing like a mother fuck. Still, it would have taken more than that to dampen Dean’s spirits.

“Baby, you have no idea,” he drawled, grinning.

He was gonna milk this for all it was worth before Sam finally took the ribbon out. Set up a few photo ops, snap a few shots on his cell and send them to Bobby. Maybe a couple of other people too, while he was at it. Good times all around.

And yeah, when Sam came out of the bathroom two hours later wearing the skirt Dean had bought for him, with his legs shaved and the right side of his hair pulled into a much neater pigtail than Dean had managed on the left, it was fucking awesome. Dean took a few pictures while Sam was packing up their stuff, immediately sent one off to Bobby _(_ whats wrong w/this pctr? _as the accompanying caption)_ , and then snickered to himself until Sam asked in this prissy tone of voice what the hell was so funny. After that, he bit his tongue and limited himself to smirking.

Everything stayed amusing as hell until they stopped for lunch and the waitress, instead of giving Sam strange looks, smiled and called him ‘Sugar’ and told them they made a cute couple. At which point Dean really had to put on the breaks, cause he was sick and tired of people calling him gay. Especially with someone as geeky _(and right now, flaming)_ as Sam. If Dean _were_ gay, he could do so much better.

“He’s my brother,” Dean announced, and for some reason that got him the weird look he was expecting to be pointed in Sam’s direction.

Sam flicked his straw wrapper at Dean’s chest. “Dean seems to think that any woman with half a brain and some decent upper body strength has to have their girl membership revoked,” he explained. The waitress gave Sam a sympathetic, ‘I’m there with you, sister’ smile and then frowned at Dean as she took his menu.

Which, in retrospect, was probably the first sign that things had gotten messier than he had intended. At the time, though, Dean was too busy being confused to notice.

They made it about halfway through the meal without any more problems—and really, the way Sam was holding his glass with his pinky waving around in the air was priceless—and then Sam leaned forward over the table and whispered, “Don’t make it obvious, okay?”

“Don’t make _what_ obvious?” Dean answered around a mouthful of burger.

“Corner booth at nine o’clock,” Sam said, and then twined one pigtail around a finger. “The guy in the red shirt is totally checking me out, right?”

Dean blinked at Sam. Blinked over at the booth _(and yeah, the guy was definitely interested, which was … disturbing)_ and then back at Sam again.

“Um.”

“He _is_ , isn’t he?” Sam said, and sat back with his eyes sparkling and his skin flushed. Then, dropping his eyes and fiddling with his fork, he added, “We don’t, uh, have to be anywhere particular today, right?”

There were a lot of ways Dean could take that question, but only one of them _(as unthinkable as it might be)_ actually fit with the way Sam was acting. Christ, today was turning into one fucked up bitch of an acid trip.

“Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You want to hold up here so you and Mr. Right over there can, uh …”

“See the sights,” Sam filled in, cutting his eyes over toward the guy.

Okay, Sam was fucking with him. He had to be. Except Sam seemed completely sincere.

“But you’re not _gay_ ,” Dean said finally.

Sam pursed his lips. “Can’t you be serious for, like, a minute?” he demanded. “I think I’m in there, and I need you to just … you know. Clear out for about an hour. I do it often enough for you.”

Sam thinking he was a girl was one thing. Sam actually _fucking_ like he was a girl … well, that was a whole ‘nother ballpark that Dean didn’t want to be anywhere near. Letting out a low laugh, he shook his head and said, “That is soooo not gonna happen.”

“You sound like Dad,” Sam grumped, pouting. “I have needs too, you know.”

Dean thought Dad would have had something a little more colorful to say, actually, but that wasn’t the point. “Oh, let me count the ways I really don’t need to hear about your ‘needs’,” he muttered.

“I’m a big girl, Dean,” Sam said, firming his jaw and lifting his head. “You don’t get to make my decisions for me any more.”

And then, before Dean could say anything, Sam was out of the booth and heading over to Casanova’s table and sitting down on the guy’s fucking _lap_ , and that’s how Dean ended up with sore knuckles and a split lip and a sullen _(and cockblocked, thank God)_ brother in the passenger seat.

As soon as he was relatively sure that the cops that the guy’s friends had threatened to call wouldn’t be able to find them, Dean pulled off to the side of the road, said, “Okay, fun’s over,” and yanked the ribbon out.

Or he tried to.

“Ow! Dean, stop it!” Sam slapped at his hands for a moment, which was oddly adorable, and then punched him, which wasn’t.

“Fuck! Sam, just lemme. I gotta get that fucking ribbon out, okay?”

“Are you _insane_?” Sam demanded.

“Just … humor me, man.”

Sam looked at him flatly for a moment and Dean was almost positive that his brother was going to refuse. Then he sighed and reached up and started untying it himself. And kept on untying it, his face going more and more upset as he worked.

“Dean? It won’t—it’s not coming out.”

Yeah, of course it wasn’t.

Cutting the ribbon out didn’t work, either—neither of them could get a pair of scissors anywhere near the thing—and when Dean suggested a blow torch, only half-joking, the _look_ Sam gave him would have shriveled a weaker man’s balls. Dean shut up immediately and they sat there in the Impala, staring at their hands and thinking.

After a few minutes, Sam stirred and said, “Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“Why aren’t we moving?”

“Uh, cause we’re trying to figure out how to get that ribbon out of your hair?”

“Ribbon?” Sam repeated in this confused tone of voice.

It was at this point that Dean became aware that Someone was punishing him for trying to have a little fun at Sam’s expense.

 _I learned my lesson,_ Dean thought in the general direction of Whatever happened to be listening. _You can put him back now._

“Dean? What ribbon?”

Dean waited for a few more seconds, hoping for a miracle but willing to settle for some kind of sign. When it became obvious that he was on his own, he sighed and started the car. “Never mind, dude.”

Thirty minutes later, his phone buzzed. Hoping that it was Bobby finally getting back to him, Dean pulled off at the next exit to check the incoming text. If anyone could fix this, Bobby could. Man had a nice, rational way of looking at things, even if he was gonna tear Dean a new one for messing around with cursed items.

The text was, in fact, from Bobby, but reading it made Dean’s stomach sink down into the ground.

 _Looks okay to me. something up with her?_

Letting out a sharp laugh, he thumped his head down on the steering wheel. When _(not ‘if’: ‘if’ was not an option)_ he got them out of this, Dean was never pranking Sam again.


End file.
